


In Every Lifetime

by foxseal



Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Canon Compliant, French Revolution, M/M, Reincarnation, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 03:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxseal/pseuds/foxseal
Summary: Minhyun and Seongwoo are star-crossed lovers in all realities—except one. A reincarnation AU.(Originally written for prompt #9 of Sirius Rises' 5th round!)





	In Every Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: "Four life reincarnations au: where the first lifetime takes place during the war, second lifetime during the renaissance, third during the romantic era and fourth during the present."
> 
> ☆ This took me forever to complete because real life came up and I was frankly in no writing mood in January for obvious reasons... (wipes tears)  
> ☆ To prompter, I hope this was along the lines of what you wanted! Clearly I took the liberty of using more than four aus... but I hope they do not disappoint you ;u;  
> ☆ Thank you to kei as always for reading over this!  
> ☆ Excerpt of poem here is inspired by The Deserted Village by Oliver Goldsmith

**_1510 - Venice_ **

 

For the first time in his life, Ong Seongwoo is faced with the realisation that there aren’t enough colours in the world to capture the sight in front of him.

Draped in a golden matrimonial overcoat, the man casts a kaleidoscopic soft glow around Seongwoo's sun-drenched studio—a small, third-floor room on one of the few properties by the canal. Even the hustle and bustle of the streets below fails to faze Seongwoo from his work—his brushstrokes stay firm, his hands progressively become more paint-flecked and he finds it harder to breathe each time he has to look up—because _Heavenly Father, what a sight._ The man's lips form a perfect curve, exactly like the cupid’s bow Seongwoo picks out in murals, in a shade of pink so enticing it’s taken Seongwoo five minutes just to create a satisfying colour on his palette. Dark brown locks frame the man's sharp features—they remind Seongwoo of a diamond, but hewn to softness around the edges, leaving behind a brilliant glint and the sense that he isn’t something to be touched. Only admired. Seongwoo’s commitment to this rule, if allowed to him, would surpass even that of the most pious of mankind.

Even the man's name sounds like a prayer, like a praise for the heavens above.

“Minhyu—Sir, can you tilt a little to the right?”

“Please, call me Minhyun,” he replies, head ducking down. “Like this?”

The man turns his head in Seongwoo’s direction and their eyes meet.

He’s going to need a little more red for Minhyun’s cheeks.

“Perfect.”

The commission papers bear the two names the most powerful merchant families in all of Venice. Minhyun isn’t gushing about his bride-to-be, nor does he seem overly nervous. This is only conjecture, but Seongwoo thinks the union is more of an economic agreement, and Minhyun hasn’t given his heart away to the young lady yet. He wonders if such a gesture would ever be a possibility. 

The painting is to be displayed in the chapel they will be wedded in. Seongwoo isn’t invited, of course, but he can tell that the chapel will be a pretty one. It _has_ to be, if it’s deemed worthy enough to house the most important piece of art known to mankind. The kind of art that inspires other artwork, until every corner of the Earth bears its mark of beauty and ethereal qualities. If Seongwoo was cursed to only paint one subject for the rest of his life, he would laugh at his condemner, and pick Minhyun as his curse, as his blessing, as his everlasting muse until the end of time.

Seongwoo wishes he had more than the few hours he was paid for to paint Minhyun’s portrait, a wedding present for his soon-to-be bride. But forty florins and an afternoon are all he’s given, so Seongwoo paints like it’s the last time he’s ever going to pick up a paintbrush. Like it’s the last time he’ll be able to see a sight as beautiful as this. 

(“It’s beautiful,” Minhyun tells the painter once he’d finished, a sliver of Venice’s setting sun filtering in through their window. “You have incredibly skillful hands, Seongwoo.”

His fingers are coated in sunset orange, blood red; warm hues that draw Minhyun in. Unconsciously he reaches out, wanting to be close to that warmth, but the painter's eyes widen and Minhyun is rudely awoken from his trance.

“Thank you, sir.” There’s a self-satisfied smile on his pretty mouth. “If you gave me more time, I could show you what else my hands can offer.”

How desperately Minhyun wants to engage in the banter; but he is not here merely for himself, instead he is doing this for his family. For that reason alone, Minhyun must maintain his dignity.

“U-unfortunately my bride—“ he hesitates. “She is waiting for me.”

The curtsy feels a little stilted, but Seongwoo’s eyes never lose their kindness. “Of course, sir.”

Days later, when Minhyun leans in close to kiss his clammy-handed bride, he lets his eyes flutter closed and thinks of the artist with paint-stained hands, a toothy smile and the warmth of a sun-drenched third-floor studio by the Venetian canals.)

  


* * *

 

 

**_1831 - Paris_ **

 

When Seongwoo hands Minhyun yet another poem, it takes all of his willpower not to spit out the ice-cold lager in his friend’s face.

He says as much, to which Seongwoo only replies with a snort, “You've never liked the stuff, anyway.”

“But Seongwoo—you can’t be serious.” The oil lamp Seongwoo’s holding up is swaying in the wind—it’s always windy in this back alley—and Minhyun longs for the warmth of the pub they’ve just escaped from. Even in the poor, dim lighting, the words are stark black against the pale yellow parchment, loud and mocking.

Minhyun clutches at his worn coat tighter and frowns. “No. I’m sorry, Seongwoo, but no.”

“What?”

“I don’t think I can perform this.”

“Why not?” Seongwoo’s face is full of hurt, and Minhyun knows it’s not mean to incite guilt, but he feels the pang of it nonetheless. “You think it’s bad?”

“It’s not that, Seongwoo. The opposite—I think it’s beautifully raw.” _King's pampered luxury thins mankind—those joys the sons of pleasure know—_ _Extorted from his fellow creature's woe_ _—_ “Too raw. It’s one thing to support the Revolution but… Seongwoo we’re just _students—“_

“Everyone back there’s a student—“

“Not _visiting_ students, they’re not.”

Seongwoo laughs, but even that sounds hollow, dripping with nerves. “Freedom is freedom, Minhyunnie, no matter where you’re from.”

“But you know this is different.”

Even in the shadows Minhyun sees the way Seongwoo’s eyes turn downcast. “We’re going nowhere without this, you have to admit that. I’m tired.”

“We all are.”

“That’s why we need _this,_ ” Seongwoo presses the slips of paper back at him, fragile in the cold but so, so heavy in Minhyun’s pale fingers. “We need more people. Everyone is feeling the same way—I know you know this, too, because we both see the kind of crowd that this pub brings in. The only safe place in Paris… why do you think everyone’s here? They all know it’s time for change, that there have to be some… some _major_ changes to the system. But right now everyone’s just complaining—we need _emotions_ to really kick things off. Minhyun, I know it’s a little out of your comfort zone—“

“Seongwoo—“

“ _But._ ” Warm hands take hold of Minhyun’s cold ones. “You’re the only one I trust… the only one who can bring my poems to life.  Just like always. I don’t even trust _myself_.” Seongwoo’s laugh is meant to reassure, but Minhyun still feels stiff with nerves.

“You’re not afraid… after last time?”

“No. They don’t scare me. They can’t silence me, either.” With the mischievousness of a child on Christmas morning, Seongwoo wiggles his fingers with a smirk. “Not as long as these hands can still hold a pen.”  

If Seongwoo’s valiant display of nonchalance is cue for Minhyun to relax, it only half works. They’ve avoided countless skirmishes with the authority that by now Minhyun always insists on accompanying Seongwoo outside, regardless of distance. When Minhyun reads his poems in the corners of streets, on platforms in marketplace, squares—anywhere with a listening ear—he’d mellow out the sharp edges of Seongwoo’s scathing criticisms, would always smooth out the thorny lexicons of his insults. Seongwoo tends to be impulsive, tends to get swept away by emotions—there’s no guessing what talk of the town will catch his attention next. And the last thing Minhyun wants is a repeat of Seongwoo’s anger-fueled rampage of pasting his poem all over town for any literate Parisian to read. It ended with a small-scale, but no less violent, mob of insurgents chanting his rhymes down every alley while they gasped for breath under bridge that smelled strongly of piss, the French Guards hot on their heels.

The point is, Seongwoo gets into danger more often than is good for him and Minhyun is _worried_. For all his fiery passion, literacy prowess and fierce belief in freedom, Minhyun can’t imagine what would happen if he lost sight of the boy for even a second.

He places his palm on top of Seongwoo’s—then thinks better of it, and ducks down to press their lips together. Firm and quick, because if anyone catches them they’d be in big trouble, and although Minhyun isn’t one to thrust danger right under Seongwoo’s nose he also wants _this_ for himself. Just this once.

“If anything happens to you, I swear to god—”

“Minhyun, relax,” murmurs Seongwoo with a soft hand on his nape. “I’m not the only writer speaking out.”

“You’re the only one dumb enough to repeatedly attack the royal family’s cabinet, their policies—and now them _personally_ —“

“It’s our only way to change things.” He hesitates, then twines their fingers together and squeezes them together. “We can do so many great things together. And we will. Please trust me.”

It’s a stupid request—of _course_ Minhyun trusts Seongwoo, so much that it scares him to imagine what kind of lengths such unconditional trust could lead him to.

 _Only great things_ , Minhyun reminds himself as he hugs Seongwoo tight enough to feel his heartbeat against Minhyun’s own.

“You owe me so much beer.”

Minhyun’s body shakes with Seongwoo’s answering laugh—light with relief, charged with excitement. “You don’t even like it, but sure. All the mugs you could possibly bear with, Minhyunnie. They’ll be waiting for you right here in this pub.”

Except no one expected the size of the crowd that would turn up just outside the pub the next morning. 

No one expected the guards storming in the square with their artillery and intimidating stallions.

No one expected them to elbow through the hysteric crowd that lunge and curse at them; to disregard the poet standing by the steps to the makeshift stage; to storm at the unarmed speaker with a sheet of poetry in his trembling hands and put a gun to his head.

A catalyst. That was what Seongwoo coveted for so desperately—the one element every revolution needs, and he thought his poetry could do it. He never meant for Minhyun to be a martyr.

“They were _my_ words— _please!_ ”

No one notices the poet’s sound of anguish as the guards drag the pale-faced orator away—he is, after all, only one cry amongst the symphony of grief permeating every wall in the doomed, doomed city.

 

* * *

  


**_1912 - ** _Southampton_**_ **

 

“Hurry up, Seongwoo, let’s get the bill.”

Another too-loud slurp in a restaurant too fancy for either of them, then a snort as Seongwoo tries again—in vain—to lap up the spaghetti threatening to stain his newly-starched, crisp white blouse. “Already? I didn’t even get to order dessert.”

Uncaring of the plates between them, Minhyun reaches over to tip Seongwoo’s chin upwards and press their mouths together—Seongwoo tastes a little like the fancy wine they sipped on and a lot like award-winning tomato sauce. “Can you stop being so adorable?”

Seongwoo isn’t fazed by the compliment. “Guess what, I can be even more adorable after I get dessert.”

“As enticing as that sounds, we really are running out time, darling.”

“Aw, come on, Minhyunnie, we don’t get to eat like this every day. What’s the rush?”

He waves a pair of tickets in his hands and Seongwoo’s eyes light up like he’s seeing them for the first time; like they both haven’t been casting giddy looks at the slips of paper throughout the entire dinner; like they haven’t been working tirelessly day in, day out to have a slice of heaven to themselves at last. Mere months ago it seemed only like a faraway fairytale—yet here they are. How excitingly unexpected life can be, Minhyun thinks, and how quickly fate can flip on its head in the most wonderful ways possible.

“Forgotten your own anniversary present already?” he teases. “We’ve got a ship to catch.”

“A whole adventure to embark on.” The sigh Seongwoo lets out is dreamy. “I can’t believe we’re really going to see New York!”

“Do you think it’ll be very different from Southampton?”

“Only one way to know.” Seongwoo leans over the table, grinning. “Why don’t we hop on the maiden _Titanic_ and see for ourselves?”

 

* * *

 

**_1892 - Macao_ **

 

“Ever wanted to own one of those?”

Minhyun jumps in his seat, hastily averting his gaze to anything and anyone but his previous subject of fixation. There isn’t much in ways of entertainment, here in his uncle's small street shop along a busy road frequented by the European tradesmen—not even the glimmer of sea or silhouettes of mountains. So really, he can’t be blamed for staring at the shop’s most loyal customer.

(What Minhyun doesn’t admit is that even in a room full of the most exotic animals and artefacts, he still wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off of Ong Seongwoo.)

He looks towards the line of tourists and locals standing giddily behind the large, boxy contraption set up on the streets outside the shop, right in the thick of the crowd. A middle-aged, slightly stooped man operates it, holding something in the air as the contraption lets out a bright flash no and again. Briefly, Minhyun wonders how often Seongwoo’s been on the other side of it.

“Not really,” Minhyun replies after a while. “I don’t have much need for having faces printed out in black and white.” He doesn’t add that perhaps he’d make an exception if it was Seongwoo’s face on the print, like the excuse could save him the embarrassment of getting caught mid-stare. 

Seongwoo finally turns to him, rests his arms on the desk behind which Minhyun sits. He’s now close enough for Minhyun to notice the scatter of moles on his left cheek, the ones cameras and illustrations on promotional posters always miss. Ever since Seongwoo’s odd visits to the shop turned into a routine pastime, Minhyun’s decided that he likes _this_ Seongwoo better—not the darling of Macao’s theatre scene, but the boy who sneaks in his uncle’s store with his head ducked down, filching a sweet or two from Minhyun’s jar just so he has a reason laugh out loud in the small store.

“But that’s the thing—what if it wasn’t?”

“Wasn’t what?”

“If it wasn’t just black and white.”

Minhyun looks away—he can’t meet those sparkling, brilliant eyes from this sort of proximity. “Really bright, probably.”

The boy blinks, like he wasn't expecting the answer. Then he laughs, and Minhyun’s heart stumbles in its beat.

“I don’t know why that sounds funny.“

It’s addicting, that sound. And Minhyun just wants to hear it, over and over again. He grabs one of the cheap sunglasses from the cabinet behind him, slides them on, and says to Seongwoo with a serious face, “Might need to buy them for when they start inventing colour cameras."

The second time the boy erupts into laughter it’s a little louder, a lot more carefree and it makes Minhyun feel like he’s on top of the world; that he’s invincible, as if he only had one objective in life and he’s surpassed it.

Seongwoo bends over, and coughs into a handkerchief. It comes away with blood.

Minhyun pretends not to see. Pretends not to know that the great performer’s been coming to their shop not in search for antiques, but in search of superstitious relics that were said to be able to cure even the most potent illnesses. Because at least now, when the performer visits, he still glows, but in a way that doesn’t blind—in a way that draws someone in like moths to a flame.

For now—perhaps forever, even—Minhyun is content to be the moth to his wavering flame.

 

 

* * *

  


**_2026 - New York_ **

 

A sharp knock on his door, and Minhyun reluctantly looks up to see his secretary poking her head inside the room.

“Sir, I have the list of candidates for our Junior Associate position.”

“Is that the final shortlist?”

She walks inside briskly, a small stack of folders in her arms. “Yes, sir, these are the ones that passed the second round. We will be interviewing them next week and we’d like you to sit in on one of the candidates’ case study interview.”

Minhyun tries not to grimace. He’s got a pressing case that needs a lot more data review than he currently has time for, and he didn’t even factor in his promise to help out with recruitment—which he made _months_ ago—into this calculation. In other words, Minhyun is halfway to being hopelessly screwed, but he can’t let it show. In this industry, there’s no such thing as being overwhelmed—there’s only ever poor time management.

“I thought I was only meant to evaluate their CVs?”

“HR’s changed their minds. Again.”

Pulling over the thin stack of files closer to him with the most minute of sighs, Minhyun starts flipping the crisply printed papers over politely to skim over their resumes. _Park Jihoon, past BCH intern… Kim Jaehwan, previously a Junior Associate at Bein… Kim Jonghyun, Product Manager at startup Ubeer… Ong Seongwoo, Musical Actor…_

Minhyun raises his eyebrows at the last one, and is somewhat intrigued that someone from such an unorthodox field of experience has made it past the multiple grueling interview rounds. He bites his lip, considering—and then thinks better of it.

Ultimately, it’s crunch period, and as much as Minhyun appreciates creative, quirky minds he doesn’t have time to coach or do the brainwork for anyone _but_ a promising candidate.

He pulls a folder out decisively.

“Assign me to Kim Jaehwan, and get Sungwoon in on the interview too. I want him to take minutes.”

His secretary nods, makes a quick note on her iPad and sweeps the rest of the folders away from his desk and sight.

“Assigned, sir.”

 

* * *

  


**_1951 - Incheon_ **

 

“Keep near the foxholes.”

Minhyun lets out a surprised breath—but a silent one, always silent—when he feels Seongwoo beside him, clearly out of formation. Not only is this operation a covert one, it is also a midnight strike—they’re hoping to take the enemy frontline, clear out the trenches in one fell swoop, and to do that their strategy must be airtight. A single wrong move can get them all killed.

Minhyun looks around in trepidation for fear of a senior officer noticing the anomaly—but the fog seems thick enough to conceal their movement at least for this window of time.

“Then my path wouldn’t make sense,” Minhyun whispers back, keeping his rifle cocked ahead. “Like yours right now. What are you doing here? Someone would see and—“

“Minhyun—just. Please,” he repeats, and his voice sounds off. It’s tired, afraid—nothing like the cloudless, clear laughter Minhyun’s grown to admire.

“Hey,” he slows his steps. Seongwoo falls in pace with him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound okay, so they stop for a while. “Minhyun. Will you keep near the foxholes?”

Minhyun nods in agreement without a second thought then—it must have been the desperation in Seongwoo’s voice. Satisfied, Seongwoo retreats to his position, leaving Minhyun disoriented with confusion.

The shelling starts just as Minhyun has his foot grazing the edge of a foxhole. Explosions ring in his ears; there are screams over the blasts— _get inside, retreat!—_ and Minhyun leaps into the shallow, roughly dug hole, pulls at his limbs to curl up, lets his useless rifle dig painfully into his chest. He peeks over the rim only once to scream Seongwoo’s name, but there is only fire and falling bodies and dirt flung into the air and Minhyun just hopes he hasn’t lost track of Seongwoo.

The next morning, once dust has settled and all the bullet shells have been pulled out of bodies, both warm and cold, they realise the covert operation is not as covert as they’d thought.

Several days later, when the injured have been wrapped in temporary bandages, they say they’ve found the Northern spy. Not many people came out of that operation alive, and they can’t find _his_ papers, so it must have been _him_.

No one listens to Minhyun when he pleads that Seongwoo saved his life.

Everyone comes out to see the execution. A public one isn’t common, but the high-ranking officers must be thirsty for blood of the enemy after so much of their own men’s have been shed.

The spy struggles in his binds. His moles are hidden under the smear of dirt on his cheek. His body moves so lithely, even in the brink of death. He’s blindfolded.

Minhyun wishes he can see Seongwoo's dark brown, intelligent eyes one last time.

_Was Ong Seongwoo even his real name?_

They don’t give him the mercy of counting—just a loud ‘ _Fire!_ ’, a terrible gunshot, and a hoarse cry. Then the body stops moving.

Minhyun turns around and throws up all over the ground.

He wishes he hadn’t seen anything at all.

 

 

* * *

  
  


**_2019 - Seoul_ **

 

There’s an itch in the tips of Minhyun’s fingers.

Minhyun tries to wipe the tears still lingering in his eyes amongst the flurry of flowers and congratulations—he bows in every direction he can, not really registering who exactly he’s thanking because his head is swiveling around trying to find _him_ —the one person he couldn’t stop thinking of the second he was lowered into a space too small compared to the gaping stage he stood on mere moments ago—

Someone bumps into him with a sharp shoulder. Minhyun turns around, an automatic apology on his tongue—but it freezes over once he spots a mop of black hair, the figure so painfully familiar that Minhyun can’t even begin to think about what it would mean to not have it near him from tomorrow onwards.

Seongwoo is heading in the direction of the changing room, and in a split second he’s out of Minhyun’s sight.

Minhyun is hit with a sense of déja-vu, first—then overwhelming panic, second, because a blinding wave of emotions crashes over his entire being. It reminds Minhyun of the multiple drafts of speech he wrote out for the ‘Re:Ong’ interview, reminds him of the unrelenting way Seongwoo would always drag him out of his comfortable hotel room, of late night spent practicing lines, of Seongwoo’s often unattractive laugh that only makes Minhyun want to lean in closer, maybe close enough for their lips to touch.

It reminds him of the time he saved Minhyun’s life, made Minhyun forget about the person he’s meant to marry, the revolution that he never saw—of blood, of terrible, frigid ice waters suffocating him—

Then it hits Minhyun like a freight train with loose breaks—the realisation that if he doesn’t do something now, _right now_ , Seongwoo would slip right between his fingers.

Again.

(Minhyun isn’t sure how, but he _knows_. Like one would remember a childhood story book from time immemorial.)

He breaks away from the crowd and speed-walks past the myriad of staff, family members, friends milling about—he’s zeroing in on one door because he can’t let this happen again—not after all they’ve gone through together in the past two years they’ve spent together, not after they’ve built a friendship so solid from a shaky, awkward start.

Not after all these lifetimes.

“Seongwoo.”

And then Minhyun is standing right in front of the man his entire heart has been aching for. Seongwoo’s halfway through downing a bottle of water, hair pushed back messily away from his eyes. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy—they’ll definitely be swollen tomorrow—and when he swallows there is a little hiccup at the end of his breath.

“Hey.” Seongwoo tries for a carefree, charismatic smile, but there’s an unmistakable dip around the edges. It makes Minhyun’s heart clench in his chest. “Four days. That was… something.”

“Yeah, super tiring.” But neither would trade those four days for anything else—they both know that. Minhyun rocks back on his heels a little. “And now it’s over.”

Seongwoo doesn’t bother masking the remorse in his eyes as he gives a watery laugh. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

They stand in silence as Minhyun tries to find the words to say.

“But I don’t want it to.”

“It’s alright, Minhyun. We said we’ll still keep the group chat, right?

“Not—well, of course, that, too. But I don’t—“ Minhyun takes a deep breath. If he’s going to do this, he better do it _right_. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Seongwoo cocks his head, but doesn’t say anything. Which sucks. He really is making this harder for Minhyun.

“I know you probably—want to move on, after all this.”

Seongwo’s eyebrows shoot up. “I never said that.”

“Well, you were never one to let yourself linger in the past, were you?” Maybe Minhyun is reading this all wrong—maybe there’s a reason he let those chances slip in the past. Maybe—

“Minhyun,” Seongwoo sounds concerned. “What are you really trying to say?”

He’s come this far. It would be stupid to back out now.

“I just want to say… thank you. I’m not someone who opens up to new people easily, yet you made me so comfortable in such a short time. You're fun. You make everything fun. And you understand me so well that sometimes I feel like…” Minhyun trails off, afraid to look into Seongwoo’s eyes. “Like I’ve known you for years. Like we belong together.”

“Yeah?” Seongwoo asks, almost in a whisper—and Seongwoo never whispers. “What are you getting at, Hwang Minhyun?”

How do people do this? Minhyun hesitates as he licks his lips, blinks twice to make sure this isn’t just all a vision that will fade away from him.

He isn’t going to let Seongwoo slip away. He can’t.

“I think I love you.”

A warm hand closes over his and Minhyun feels himself being slowly dragged forward. He inhales a shaky breath, and realises the tears are slipping out again, unbidden. A thumb swipes across his cheek and he can’t remember when the last time he’d felt it on his skin was—maybe never. Minhyun tries not to shake—the adrenaline accumulated from the past four days is still thrumming in his skin but it’s making him taut, hypersensitive. He can feel every point their skin makes contact.

“And I know you said we’ll keep in contact but—can we do more than that?”  

Seongwoo is holding him; Minhyun is in Seongwoo’s arms and the world can fall apart around them for all Minhyun cares—just as long as he gets to have _this._

Except when Seongwoo leans in to press their lips together, the world suddenly becomes _whole_ and all the puzzle pieces fall into place—every twist and turn has led them here, the very path they were meant to take. The ending to the many scenarios cut too early, the payoff of literal blood, sweat and tears.

Pulling back slightly, a smile traces itself on Seongwoo’s lips and Minhyun wishes he had the words to describe it—it’s a smile he’s never seen before, like it’s reserved for this moment in time and this request alone. Like he’s been waiting, all this time, for this very question.

Seongwoo laughs and the tension in Minhyun’s chest snaps.

“ _Finally._ ”  

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you have been reading up to this point - thank you so, so much for reading my work. writing for wanna one was not something i foresaw mere months ago, to be honest, but i decided to just give it a try and it has truly become one of the highlights of my 2018. 
> 
> this community is filled with amazing fics and fic writers, so many courteous, supportive readers and incredibly enthusiastic fans. writing for this ficdom has seen me at one of my most productive periods - a fact that astonished even myself. onghwang and nielwink really brought some of the best of my writing abilities to life (and some of my worst sleeping patterns to reality... but it was worth), and i would never have touched some of the aus i did without them. i had an amazing friend along with me this entire ride, and without her i don't think i would have written 0.1% of the words i did (looking at you kei!!! my #1 gal!!!!!). i had so many more aus i wish i could write, so many sequels and stories of stories that i wish i had time to explore! but i guess all good things must come to an end so they can remain as sweet memories in our hearts.
> 
> to readers; **thank you** so, _so_ much for giving my fics a chance, even though they were incredibly self-indulgent and inconsistent at times. each and every comment left really made my day - there were so many times when uni had me down and i'd unconsciously check ao3, only to leave the page smiling giddily because of a simple 'thank you!' or praise someone's left me. they are invaluable and i cannot thank you enough for them!
> 
> i may be posting finished wips here over the next few days. i may post things here sometime in the future - either when inspiration strikes, when my otps decide to do something outrageous (HAHA), or when i feel like a wip deserves to be read by someone (yea i've got like... probably 20k+ of wips sitting in my folder uselessly, help). but since the chances are unlikely, i wanted to take the opportunity to say thank you and give my otp/s proper closure. they've been a great muse, and this has been one of the most exciting period of my fic-writing life. 
> 
> i will still be around on [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/sealfox)! take care everyone, and perhaps you'll see me floating around ao3 again sometime in the future hehe
> 
> ♥


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